


Snow

by Cendiar



Series: Draw's Advent Calendar [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Draw's Advent Calendar, I actually know nothing about clothes, M/M, but oh well, first one and already late, should be asleep but this is fine, what are words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:00:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21678916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cendiar/pseuds/Cendiar
Summary: Fashion is hard, and snow on glasses is the worst part of snow. Good thing Aziraphale and Crowley have each other's backs.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Draw's Advent Calendar [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1562803
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	Snow

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing fic! Everything and everyone in this fandom is so delightful, and Draw's advent calendar seemed like the perfect way to start...actually posting things without needing to justify them to myself? Or come up with ideas out of the blue? Thanks for stopping by, and may you have a lovely day!

The salt crunches and grinds under Crowley’s boot, powdering the pavement with rough crystals. A periodic warning glare keeps the salt residue off his shoes – satiny, dark suede in a cut that will be all the rage in three months. Crowley has dressed to meet Aziraphale for dinner and a ballet. Something about it being the season for it – Crowley had been distracted by the crinkle-eyed smile that accompanied this suggestion, so here he is, striding down a blustery London street with two tickets to Someone-knows-what in his pocket. 

The bookshop door dings merrily when Crowley pulls it open. 

“Just a moment, dear! Let me get my coat, it really is getting to be winter, isn’t it?”

Crowley pulled the door shut behind him, shifting his heel from side to side as he idly taps it against the doorframe. 

“Oh come off it, angel, it is not that cold. Is that scarf even from this century?”

The garment in question is a muddy greenish gray, patterned in a way not dissimilar to a tattered throw blanket. Currently, it covers Aziraphale’s entire neck and half of his mouth. Charming as the effect is, the ensemble could not be accused of being sleek. Crowley snaps his fingers, turning towards the door as he hears the angel exclaim in surprise and tempered approval at the soft merino blend, in a dark slate gray that shines forest green where the lamplight hits it in the reflection of the window.

“Can’t have you showing up looking like a tramp, we might lose our reservation, and that would really be saying something. Oh, for – ”  
This last bit comes in response to the gust of snow that blows in through the door, dashing Crowley’s unsuspecting face with pinpricks of cold. Crowley is balefully inspecting the soft snowfall – the first gust had been bad luck combined with the curl of warm air from the bookshop – through his smudged sunglasses when he hears a familiar click of fingers and feels a gentle weight settle on his head. Lifting a hand to his head and glancing up cautiously, Crowley finds a dark gray hat not unlike the one he had favored during the Blitz, with the brim perfectly shielding his glasses from the snow.

“To match, my dear,” says Aziraphale, beaming at him before glancing down and fingering his scarf.


End file.
